Part Six: A Nice Little Seaside Trip

Not long after the lift incident I got a summons to Captain Beresford's office.

'Take a seat, John,' he said after acknowledging my salute. A set of untidy scrawled papers sat on the desk in front of him.

'The condemned bravely took a seat,' I murmured. The Captain noticed and smiled wryly.

'Not far wrong. 'Fraid I'm going to have to move you up on the Maiden's Point roster, John, you and the other three most recent inductees.'

My stomach sank, also my spirits, and my mouth made a downturn. I had expected to get a forty-eight hour pass soon, getting back to my fiancee, who by now was probably forgetting what I looked like. A duty tour at Maiden's Point meant a month away from civilisation, according to the induction dossier.

'Any particular reason why, sir?' asked in a carefully neutral tone.

'Yes. Corporal Forbes' wife has gone into labour two weeks early. The Brig wants him lifted out today, together with the other three longest-serving men. That means four replacements go in, being yourself, Nick Munroe, Corporal Horrigan and Private Ely.'

Great. Sentenced to a place described as both "boring" and "creepy" for a month.

'So, to cut your agony short, John, you need to be packed and ready to go in an hour. Notify the others, will you? To sweeten the pill, you'll only be making up the difference for those leaving, so your tour is only for two weeks, not four.'

Half a loaf!

'Yes, sir. Do we need a travel docket?'

'No. Windmill 123 will fly you there and bring the others back. The Brig wants Corporal Forbes' with his wife in short order, make no mistake. So, helipad by eight hundred hours.'

My thoughts were not of a kind or gentle nature whilst tracking the others down to inform of our imminent destination. Horrigan and Ely took things good-naturedly. Lieutenant Munroe felt the need to swear, kick his bed, then his desk and finally his wardrobe, which made alarming clinking noises.

'Your dress uniform braided with glass?' I sarcastically remarked. More swearing. The Duty Officer on inspection might be interested in a wardrobe that sounded like a milk crate of empties. Knowing Nick, it must be either champagne or whisky in there. Beer didn't have enough profit margin.

'Typical Army! I needed to do a deal with the Mess Sergeant today and now there's no chance. He'll have got another supplier by the time we get back.'

'Whatever you say. Assemble on the helipad with full house by eight hundred. From what the captain said I think Lethbridge-Stewart will be watching our departure himself, just to make sure we leave on time.'

When I left the front of the HQ, to take the track off eastwards to the helipad waiting shelter, who crossed my path but Doctor Smith, driving the yellow antique down the gravel path. I stopped to let him pass, but unexpectedly he stopped abreast of me.

'Going on a journey, Lieutenant? Can I offer you a lift?'

It was generous of him, given that he barely knew me, and it lifted my expression of gloom momentarily.

'Thank you, Doctor Sm- Doctor. No need. Off to Maiden's Point by helicopter.'

His brow drew together in consternation.

'Maiden's Point. Maiden's Point? Why does that seem familiar. Oh, those Time Lords and my memory!'

'Er – quite,' I agreed, politely. He snapped his fingers together.

'Aha! Yes, Maiden's Point. Lieutenant, whatever you do, stay out of the water. Remember that!' and off the yellow relic went. Pretty smartly, too, for a car at least fifty years old.

Stay out of the water. Sound advice. Not only didn't I pack my trunks, the chilly Easter weather off the north-east coast would dissuade any but seals from going swimming.

The helicopter we flew north in – Windmill 123 - was cramped, almost unendurably, with four men, the pilot and four sets of personal equipment, including weapons.

'I'd have brought a smudge along, sir, if I'd known it were going to be this tight,' apologised Corporal Horrigan for the umpteenth time when his SLR barrel caught me in the ribs again.

'The lieutenant shouldn't be so overweight,' weighed in Nick Munroe. 'He takes up two other people's places.' He got favoured with a hundred-watt glare. 'Maybe three.'

'Have you seen "The Battle of Britain"?' I asked. My sarcastic subaltern colleague nodded. Every small boy and adolescent had seen the film when it came out or on re-release. 'Impressive aerial shots, weren't they?' Another nod from Nick, who looked puzzled. 'Do you know how they got them?' Shake of head from Nick. 'They took a cameraman, put him in a harness, then dangled him from a helicopter at five thousand feet. Like to try it?' and I rattled one of the safety harnesses in the helicopter.

'Coming in to Maiden's Point, five minutes to arrival, please check your harnesses are secure,' interrupted the pilot, who had remained totally uncommunicative until then. The ghost of a smile played around his lips when I looked.

Looking down at North Yorkshire from a vantage of several thousand yards, the approach to Maiden's Point looked balmy and idyllic. Moorland, heather, gorse, sand and shingle beaches, frothing breakers, pine plantations. No reason to worry about a duty assignment here. We went over the perimeter fence too fast to notice it, losing height rapidly en route to the helipad way over in a corner.

Four men in uniform waited thirty yards away, racing towards the helicopter once it touched down, led by a grinning corporal. Forbes, no doubt.

'Good luck!' I yelled over the engine noise, giving him a slap on the back. He returned a thumbs-up and the four lucky escapees left in a cloud of sand and grass cuttings.

'Hello Maiden's Point,' muttered Ely, hefting his kitbag. 'Looks like a holiday resort.'

A weatherbeaten sergeant came striding over to us, snapping a smart salute in front of me.

'Sergeant Whittaker, sir. You must be Lieutenant Walmsley. If you'll follow me I can show you all to your quarters.'

Nick and I got to share a small pre-fab hut; Corporal Horrigan bunked with the NCO's and Private Ely got the big dorm building, another pre-fab. Our minute officer's des res had a small bathroom, a television, faded copies of "Country Life", "Soldier" and "Friends Weekly" on a small table, beds, wardrobe, cabinet and dead flies on the windowledge.

The Sergeant came back to collect me ten minutes later, catching me stretching the stiffness out after the cramped helicopter.

'Sir, you are the senior officer on site now, officially Officer Commanding. Are you familiar with the layout of Maiden's Point?'

Big nod from me. I'd rapidly read the induction dossier, better known as "The Bestiary", while packing at Aylesbury, since it wouldn't be leaving UNIT territory for an airborne trip, and there was a schematic of the site in a folder in the back. Three sets of accomodation for officers, non-coms and privates, respectively; canteen, radio shed, stores shed, latrines, site generator, guard tower, helipad and rifle range. The whole site, all square mile-and-a-half of it, was surrounded by a ten foot fence topped with razor wire. Cliffs on the side facing the sea led down to a small beach and sheltered cove, and there were marker bouys out in the North Sea that notified an exclusion zone.

'Supposedly, sir, we have a full platoon here, thirty men, half on duty and half off.' There was a pregnant pause so I nodded. 'However, we've modified the routine. Three days off in the month for every member, leaving twenty seven on duty at any one time. Of those, two are on duty in the radio room, two in the guard tower and two more on misk duties. Windmill One Two Three lifts out the brick that's served a full month on a daily basis, replacing them with another brick. Okay, sir?'

The garrison here must have reasons for sorting out their time and manpower like this. No rush to change it from me, not till I saw how it ran.

'Go on.'

'That leaves three squads of seven, each of whom does an eight-hour stag on patrol, standby or off-duty. Each squad splits into a brick of four and a brick of three for patrolling. The four-man brick does the perimeter, the buildings, the old MOD site and the beach in daylight. The three-man brick has a random schedule and route, worked out by computer in Aylesbury. When you're on standby you're in uniform and with kit ready, but still indoors, and you do the canteen. Off-duty you can do what you like. Same with the days off.'

'Okay, seems fine for the moment.'

'Would you like to see the site, sir? Yes? We can get a better view from up the tower.'

I got several deep breaths of seaside air whilst walking to the tower. The day looked set to be clear and bright up here on the Yorkshire coast, with a brisk sea breeze, racing wisps of cloud and a bright blue sky.

The tower was a scaffold and sheet iron construction, rusted yet robust enough and pretty similar to what you'd expect in Ulster, trailing a set of cabling that powered a pair of small searchlights set diametrically on the observation platform.

A brace of privates snapped to attention when I managed to wriggle through the trap, doubtless hiding smiles at seeing my bulk squeezing uncomfortably into their post.

'Sorry about that, sir,' apologised Whittaker. 'I don't think we've had anyone your size up here before. I'll have one of the miskers plane it.'

'No, don't bother, sergeant. You'd have to resize the trapdoor.'

'Oh, don't worry about that, sir. No lack of time for fatigues here. Anyway, here's where you get a good view. Snape – glasses.' Private Snape handed over his binoculars and the sergeant in turn handed them to me. Looking north-east brought a small town into focus. Sweeping the glasses around, I saw unspoilt moorland, heath, rolling hills and straggling country roads, then another small town to the south-east. Continuing the sweep took my view over the sea, glassy, green and with whitecaps whipped up by the breeze.

'Very picture-postcard,' I commented.

'They all say that. At first, anyway,' drily added the sergeant. He pointed to the north-west. 'That's Staithes, and to the south you've got Port Mulgrave. Oh, and you might have missed them, but there's bouys out on the sea that mark out a Marine Exclusion Zone, about a couple of miles square.'

'Okay, let's take a walk around the buildings.' Another slightly embarassing squeeze down the trap later and we got to walk around the various buildings. Nothing very interesting, just pre-fabs or corrugated iron.

'Why no beach patrol at night? Safety?' I asked. Whittaker nodded.

'The cliffs are dangerous enough in broad daylight, sir. Any path set into them erodes away in no time, so it's difficult getting up and down even when you can see what you're doing. We've got knife-rests we pull across the paths on the last daylight patrol.'

Okay, fine. Last question for a while:

'Last question, Sergeant Whittaker. Why are we here guarding a square mile of moorland?'

His wise, experienced face broke into a frown.

'That, sir, is quite the question, quite the question. Nobody ever told me, nor any of the men who served here with me. It isn't in any of the handbooks, or Operation histories. I think the clue was in the old Naval Research Station they had here, during the war.'

From the tone of his voice there seemed to be more of the story. However, for the moment there was no more, as he suddenly got abashed at being so speculative in front of an officer, and an unknown one at that.

'Anyway, sir, you four have been slotted into the rota. You're all on Standby, until eighteen-hundred hours, then you go off duty. On duty at oh two hundred till ten hundred hours. After nine days you get a day off. The master rota is in the radio shed, sir, if you need to check it.'

Off he went, leaving me to enjoy the walk back to the officer's shack. I informed Nick of the salient facts about Maiden's Point, the garrison and the rota.

'Standby. Code for "sit on bum being bored". What entertainment is there in the armpit of North Yorkshire?' he complained.

'Television.'

'Opiate of the masses, dear boy. I mean activities!'

'The squaddies have laid out a soccer pitch.'

'Pooh! The scion of an ancient and noble Scottish family does not demean himself playing the sport of peasants.'

'The scion's head will get used as a football if he expresses himself like that,' I scolded. 'You can go fishing.'

'No I can't,' and he shook his so emphatically his red hair flew.

'Sea,' I said, pointing vaguely east. 'Water. Fish.'

'Barbed wire,' he riposted, 'Beach. Impassable.'

I got up from my bed and stared at him.

'True enough. I got a good view from the helicopter when we came in. Barbed wire, ten yards deep, all along the beach at the waters edge, coming back up inland to meet the perimeter fence.'

Hmm. No fishing then. No paddling, either. Aha! I snapped my fingers.

'No waiter service in here,' said Nick.

'Buffoon. Have you met the Doctor?'

'Which one? That twit from the rum-swiggers union or the weirdo with white hair?'

'The latter.'

'Yes I have. And he is weird. Do you know, he keeps a full-size police box in his underground lair.'

'I know that. Before we left, he warned me not to go in the water at Maiden's Point, pretty much hinting terrible things would happen if I did. Looks like someone took his advice already and removed the temptation.'

Nick burrowed in his kit for cigarettes, offering one to me before he remembered.

'Ah, no good can come from a man who keeps a police-box in his secret laboratory. A full-size one, mind you.'

'Baffoon. I'm trying to think of useful diversions for the garrison here, you know. Me being OC.'

'Ah, you power-crazed madman, calm down and have some of this.'

He offered me a bottle of aftershave.

'Here only half an hour and reduced to drinking Brut? Tsk'

'The Brut, dear sir, is probably sweetening the sewers of Bucks. What's in here is a nice malt.'

Whatever cleaning method used had been extremely effective, the bottle contents being a nice malt, indeed, with no taste of aftershave at all.

'What's a "baffoon"?'

'Like a buffoon, only more so. Rabbits – I bet there's rabbits up here, this is just the sort of country they like. We could go hunting.'

The prospect of UNIT soldiers, armed with rifles and grenades and machine guns and bayonets, grimly tracking down fluffy animals, reduced Nick to a fit of laughter.

Dinner in the canteen got served at seventeen-hundred hours, being prepared by the standby team. Nick and I got roped in, and bumbled about trying not to get in everybody else's way, ending up wiser in the ways of the kitchen – learning where vegetables, raw ingredients, herbs, knives, ladles and utensils were stored.

'How do you get resupplied?' I asked one of the NCO's, a ferrety corporal who exhibited considerable skill with a knife, cleaver, spatula and frying pan.

'Helicopter, sir,' he answered, not pausing for a second as he diced a pepper. 'Not the one that takes men in and out every day. Once a fortnight, when they rotate a brick out, the inbound helicopter brings a load of supplies.' Nick's ears pricked up at this. More profit-divining.

Obvious, really. The garrison needed food, the radio needed spare parts, the generator needed diesel. Our arrival today on short notice was out of the run of things, personnel only, no supplies.

After dinner we went back to our hut.

'Did you bring any entertainment apart from booze?'

'My transistor, and a copy of Wisden.'

'Hmm. Time is going to drag.'

Time did drag, not speeding up when I surveyed the site from our windows. Over to the south of the UNIT garrison buildings were low clumps of gorse and sedge, grown up around and within the ruins of the old MOD buildings that had replaced the original Naval ones. Wire fences ran around several of the old building remnants, carrying metal warning signs, about subsidence or unsafe structures. The gorse flowers stood out a proud yellow, making a splash of sudden colour in the sombre scene. The breeze brought a distant soughing over the site; the sea, washing against the cove and beach.

'What's wrong with this picture,' I muttered to myself. Nick heard me.

'Second sign of madness,' he cautioned.

'No, I mean it. What's wrong here. Take a guess.'

Seeing that I was serious, he stopped to consider, then got up to look out of the windows.

'Nothing. Nothing that I can see, at least.'

'Correct. What can't you hear?'

'Sorry? Can't hear?'

'No birds. When did you last go to the seaside and not hear and see gulls? No sparrows, no blackbirds, no birds or birdsong at all.'

'And that, my friends, is the first sign of madness. Tragic. Promising career cut short. Friends say they saw it coming.'

'Here's a sock, which will go in it, matey.'

'Ah, cease thy prating. Look, if we're on stag at two in the a.m., Lieutenant Munroe is getting some kip right now.'

Easily his best idea all day, and one I copied.

Getting up at ten to two in the morning wasn't fun, but thanks to the kip it wasn't too hard. I found myself on the four-man brick, with three unknown privates.

'Just lead the way,' I ordered. 'I'll follow your footsteps.' One of them gave me a bit of white sticky tape.

'Put this on the back of your collar, sir. Helps if anyone's following you.'

Camouflage cream on face, weapons check, fitments, proceed in a northerly direction.

What transpired would have filled two lines on a report sheet, yet I endured every second of those eight hours, most especially the ones during darkness. Nothing happened, nothing at all, but for the whole patrol an atmosphere of calamity just around the corner prevailed. The patrol maintained silence during darkness, apart from muffled curses and exclamations – mostly from me – at trips or knocks against undergrowth or tree branches. Once the sun came up a tangible feeling of relief came over us, and a bit of banter got exchanged.

'Okay, sir, we're going down the cliff path to the beach. Make sure you've got both hands free,' explained Mills, who led the patrol. Our path there crossed that of the random patrol, which included Nick and Private Ely, both looking wide-eyed and unhappy.

'Anything?' I asked, in a professional capacity.

'No, sir, apart from aging a year overnight,' replied Ely.

Our patrol went off to the cliff edge, which was traversed by a narrow path that slanted down, turned in a hairpin and went down to the beach. We lumbered down and crunched over the sands, keeping well clear of the rusty barbed wire that ran into the combers. Normally, at a guess, the patrol would have a breather, light a cigarette or two, empty a flask of coffee at this point. Having me along meant they wanted to look efficient and orderly.

'Okay, we'll take ten here, Private Mills. Anyone who wants can crash the ash.'

Grateful sighs from the patrol. Mills offered me a cigarette, which I refused with an explanation.

'My lips swell up like sausages if I smoke. Allergy.'

'Ah, bummer, sir.'

A few seconds of companionable silence passed.

'Does it always feel like it did last night?' I asked. 'Creepy with no reason to be.'

Mills nodded.

'Oh, aye, sir. Nothing ever happens, mind, but you always feel it's going to. Like being watched all the time.'

'Exactly! This place defines "brooding silence". I noticed there's no birds here.'

He nodded.

'Never a one. No rabbits, or any other animals either. The only things moving here are us.'

I nodded at the ocean.

'Barbed wire, exclusion zone. Ever seen anything unusual in the sea?'

Mills shuddered slightly.

'No, sir, never. They wouldn't go to all that trouble for nowt, though, would they? I can tell you nobody's ever stayed down on this beach at night, nor in daylight when the mist's in. That's right creepy.'

Fag break over, our patrol moved off, leaving the sand and walking onto a pebbled beach, moving past a cove where a single narrow archway, worn by the sea, cut through an arm of the cliffs that swept out and back in again. The shoreward part of this formation meant scrambling over big boulders, piled up in a highly unsafe manner.

Once over this natural obstruction, I saw another switchback path up the cliff, again narrow and steep. A barbed-wire knife-rest at the top of the cliff blocked our way until forced aside, the tin cans full of marbles strung to it making an unholy racket.

We strode over the patrol route inside the fence, distinctly lighter at heart in daylight, and I got close enough to Mills to ask another question.

'Do you get many people at the fence?'

He shook his head.

'Nah, sir. A few walkers in the spring or summer, that's about it. Look fierce, shout a bit and they disappear.'

A tour here really did seem to be a combination of fear and boredom in equal amounts, then.

Returning to the base after our time was up, Sergeant Whittaker came out of the radio hut and waved to me.

'Sir. Can you tell Lieutenant Munroe we have ten grenades on site, with another dozen brought in by the staff, twenty two in all. No rifle grenades.'

I gave him a brisk "very good", camouflaging my bafflement at Nick's request.

'Oh, just sorting inventory,' he explained when I asked, not being totally truthful.

Standby brought me into proximity with Whittaker in the canteen again, where the staff pretended to be ordered about by us officers. A little more accustomed to the environment, we made fewer mistakes today. The sergeant relaxed enough for me to feel encouraged to ask more questions about Maiden's Point.

'Private Mills told me there's rarely any trespassers up here, Sergeant.'

'Oh, true enough, sir. We get a few hikers come up the coast path from Port Mulgrave or Staithes, but not many because it's not in good shape. If they follow it closely it takes them well away from the fence, so only the idiots or the lost get close.'

Recalling the note to the Bestiary diagram, I remembered that the road to Maiden's Point no longer existed. The Sappers had dug it up, and destroyed the small culvert bridge over a burn that meant no vehicle without caterpillar tracks could get near the base.

'What about the locals?'

He laughed shortly.

'Not likely, sir! All scared stiff of the place, they are. The older ones seem to know why but won't tell anyone, and the young ones don't know anyway. Not even the boats from Scarborough come near the exclusion zone. They say it's bad luck to so much as see the cliffs at the Point from a ship, but you know what bloody superstitious oiks sailors are, sir, excusing my French.'

Actually I felt like forming my own superstitions about Maiden's Point.

'How was your first patrol, sir?' asked Whittaker, deceptively mildly, affecting a distant look of interest in the kitchen staff. He already knew what the answer would be.

' "Hair-raising" sums it up. I didn't see or hear anything strange but the whole time you expect – oh, I don't know, ghosts to rise up out of the ground.'

A sage nod from the sergeant.

'Not quite so picturesque, eh, sir? Well you needn't worry, nothing ever happens here - er, at least not now. I heard that the MoD police had a few suicides here when they looked after things. Mind you, they had to be here for a whole year at a time.'

Food for thought over the canteen food. Creepy, boring, silent, isolated. What a place to serve in!

In fact the "boring" part was untrue. Two events occurred in my tour that were utterly non-boring. The first was when I was on stand by, lurking in the Officers Quarters, cleaning the windows.

'Excuse me sir, trouble at sea,' came a voice from the doorway, preceded fractionally by a knock. It was Sergeant Whittaker, looking anxious.

'Trouble at t'mill?' I joked, then stopped feeling amused, seeing how genuinely alarmed the sergeant was. Adopt Proper Officer Bearing. 'What's the matter?'

'Sentry on the tower spotted a trawler headed into the exclusion zone.'

With that we were both off to the tower at a run, witnessed by a slightly startled Nick, who had been off on the shooting range, zeroing-in his SLR.

'Wait!' he exclaimed, following behind.

I beat Whittaker to the guard tower, then shot up the ladder and through the newly-widened trapdoor, just in time to hear the end of a quick conversation between the two squaddies on duty.

' – point calling Walmsley, he's too fat to fit through the – ah! Sir!'

'Glasses!' I snapped, grabbing and focussing them on a ship heading directly towards the MEZ, a trawler by the look of it. Deciding quickly, I picked up the phone from it's protective box on the inner scaffolding. Guessing that "DRO" meant Duty Radio Operator, I pressed that button.

'Hello, Duty Radio Operator here,'

'We have an unidentified merchant vessel heading towards the Marine Exclusion Zone. Notify Trap One and be quick about it.'

'Sir!' replied the DRO with considerable vim. This must be the most interesting event to have occurred here in years.

While the radio waves were buzzing with alarm calls, Sergeant Whittaker took a long look at the intruding vessel. Nick clambered up into our boudoir, to add to the spectators.

'That isn't a proper trawler,' muttered the sergeant. 'No nets out, for one thing.'

Nick pulled rank and borrowed the binoculars.

'Far too many aerials. Plus, the name is in Cyrillic. That, sergeant, is a Russian spy trawler.' He returned the glasses with a grin, looking pleased at creating a stir.

Ivan came on slowly, doggedly ignoring the warning bouys, then took up station about a mile off-shore. The ship sat there for no longer than fifteen minutes, doing whatever spying task it had been assigned, then the funnel chugged out extra gouts of diesel and it began to get underway again.

'The buggers are getting away,' complained someone.

'Don't bet on it,' exclaimed Sergeant Whittaker. He was looking through the binoculars to the north. Gradually what he had witnessed drew nearer. At first it was just a white feather with a dot at the head, which rapidly resolved into a wake with a speeding ship at the fore. We took turns to look at it through the binoculars, and to decide what it was.

'Looks like a cross between a speedboat and a jet aircraft,' commented Nick. 'Damn fast, too.'

I checked my watch. Less than twenty minutes since the DRO had notified Aylesbury. With a response that quick, I might have to revise my sneering disregard of the Royal Navy. Our Russian visitor must have had similar thoughts, as their funnel began to emit greater and greater volumes of smoke, the ship clearly trying to get away from the exclusion zone.

The strange vessel didn't enter the exclusion zone either. It turned in a graceful arc around the marker bouys and slowed down, lowering itself into the water, the forward planes it had been "skating" on disappearing under the waves.

'And now – what?' I asked aloud.

The Russian trawler carried on regardless, despite doubtless being hailed from the RN vessel. That the latter were not in a mood for messing about became clear when sudden muzzle flashes came from a cannon on the ship, and tracers slashed into the sea a few yards ahead of the fleeing trawler. Great narrow plumes of spray shot into the air, surprising me quite as much as the Russians. The forward gun turret on the RN ship turned slightly, putting the trespasser in a direct line of fire. Wisely, the Russians stopped their ship dead in the water.

'Ooh. The Navy has teeth,' quipped Nick. 'I wouldn't like to be the OC on that Russian ship.'

The two boats remained at relative rest for another two hours, by which time a Royal Navy frigate turned up. A helicopter went over from the frigate and winched up crew from the trawler one by one, taking them over to the frigate. One can only wonder at the methods used to "persuade" them to abandon ship. During the time they were stationary, we'd seen various items thrown overboard, and the funnel smoke had changed colour; must have been burning secret documents rather than risk them being acquired by horny-handed British matelots.

With startling suddenness, the small, fleet, RN craft took off, once again carefully skirting the exclusion zone. Our friend the helicopter returned, this time standing off a good half a mile from the trawler, and it launched a missile at the ship. A big bang echoed across the water as the middle of the ship flew apart, sending up a scattered cloud of debris. Joining in the fun, the frigate pumped a couple of shells into the wreck, which sank in less than thirty seconds.

All that remained of the spy trawler after that were bits of wood floating on the sea and an oily stain. Competely gone.

'Hmm. I guess the navy have Red Card rules like us,' commented Nick.

Nobody else commented. It would have been superfluous anyway.

'The legend of Maiden's Point as boring will no longer hold true in the canteen,' I wisecracked.

That constituted enough excitement for one afternoon. Endless rumours would spring from what occurred today, for years to come.

'Interesting, that, sir,' commented Sergeant Whittaker at the base of the ladder when we'd clambered down.

'Interesting? That's an understatement. You noticed that the RN never entered the exclusion zone themselves? Despite sitting on the ocean for several hours, that jet-boat of theirs never crossed into the exclusion zone, even when it would have been quicker to lift off the Russian crew.'

Quite why the navy exhibited such superhuman restraint wasn't obvious, then or later. None of us bothered over much. The navy was the navy, after all, and stubble-hoppers like us didn't have anything to do with it.

Yet a third dose of bad news came when the foursome of recent arrivals, me amongst them, were told we'd need to stay on another two weeks. Surprisingly, Nick didn't seem to mind this too much. For myself, I passed a message to the radio DRO with instructions to pass it on to Aylesbury and hence to Jan, my finacee, who probably thought I'd dumped her.

'Resupply soon!' gloated Nick, practically rubbing his hands in glee. He meant the fortnightly supply helicopter, due in the next day with a replacement rota of four men and half a ton of supplies.

When the time came for the chopper to come in, I made sure I stood at the helipad, alongside Nick, who was twitchy with anxiety.

'There it is! Beautiful!' he rhapsodised, having spotted the inbound helicopter.

Privately I considered that he needed spectacles, because the resupply chopper was a Westland Wessex. Of all the airborne vehicles that man has ever launched into the atmosphere, the Westland Wessex must be one of the ugliest; bulging, mis-shapen, front-heavy, graceless and aging, only it's designer would have considered it beautiful.

The incoming brick traded places with the outgoing, the supplies were dumped by the loadmaster and we set about carrying them into the stores hut.

"Grenade; No. 36 Pattern; 18 of" I read on a stout wooden crate.

'Sir, can you inform Lieutenant Munroe that we have over a hundred metres of fence pole in stock,' stated Sergeant Whittaker politely.

I filed this information away. Did Nick Munroe intend to wage war against the whole of Yorkshire? There was no chance to ask him about it then, as we were all busy storing material away and noting it on the inventory lists. Nor was there a chance later, since by then he was off on a routine patrol and I was on a random one. What with one thing and another, there was no chance to challenge the chancer for several days.

'Sir, we have twenty rolls of chicken wire,' reported Sergeant Whittaker to Lieutenant Munroe, right in front of me in the Officer's Hutch.

'Very good. Carry on with the netting. Ah, OC Walmsley. What can I help you with?'

I grabbed hold of his elbow, hopefully painfully.

'You can tell me what hare-brained scheme you're up to. It's my hide if the Brig finds out you've been selling hand-grenades to the locals, after all.'

He got a bit sniffy, which was an act, and not very persuasive.

'Oh, okay,' he grumbled. 'You said yourself that the main problem here is boredom, what the squaddies do on their off-duty time or the days off. So I decided to help them out, give them a project to contribute to, and incidentally raise the standard of nutrition in the mess.'

This fell entirely outside anything I'd expected.

'Show me.'

'Certainly, mon capitaine. Follow me. To the beach.'

Evidence of his handiwork stood proudly on the beach, butting up to the barbed-wire: a ten-foot tripod of fence-poles, bound together at the top with an interlaced wire binding, a foot of pole extending upwards beyond the nexus. Next to it on the beach lay a thirty foot length of pole, surmounted by a huge net framed in wood, tailed with a long rope tied at the other end. The net itself had been made by layering chickenwire, reducing the size of the mesh. Next to the tripod sat an ammunition box.

A couple of squaddies, on their off-day, stood ready at the bizarre device.

'Advance to contact!' chortled Nick. The soldiers dragged the pole and net across the sands, wallowed it into the air and dropped it at the crux of the tripod, net side towards the ocean. Then they gradually pushed forward, letting go of their pole.

'Aha!' I said, seeing reason. The landing net – for that was what it could only be – now lay in the ocean beyond the barbed wire. If anything landed in it, the men at the other end of the pole would hoist it out of the water with their rope, then swing it over the wire and onto dry land.

Trust Nick, he didn't allow chance to influence what wandered into the net. No; in that ammunition box were the extra hand-grenades he'd ordered.

'Fishing with HE,' he advised me, pulling the pin on a grenade, then throwing it as far as he could. With a muffled crump the grenade went off, and in a minute dead or stunned fish drifted into the shallows, where the giant landing-net scooped them up.

'Fish and chips tonight!' exclaimed one of the squaddies, clearly happy at the prospect. Yes, well, boosting morale and all that. OC Walmsley headed back to barracks, shaking his head at the ingenuity of modern military man.

Such ingenuity might have been the death of us. For the time being it supplied plaice, flounder, bream and eels. Eel sounds nasty in the abstract, but in the flesh it tasted quite like chicken, a fact the chefs in the canteen took advantage of. Nick's foresight included requesting a bag of lemons, which made the plaice quite acceptable. All in all the whole Maiden's Point establishment felt the better for Mister Munroe's Giant Fish Scoop, both in terms of chucking hand grenades at defenceless fish and the change in diet it made.

The second interesting thing to happen at Maiden's Point during my tour involved the beach patrol. It was of interest to me since I happened to be part of that particular beach patrol, on the last run before darkness fell, when the beach became out of bounds. Having been on-site for over two weeks, I had gotten more used to the unpleasant feeling of having hidden eyes staring at my defenceless back all the time. "More used to" did not equal "Not bothered by". Tail end charlie in our brick, and in every other, acquired the habit of suddenly turning to catch anyone silently sneaking up on the patrol.

I have mentioned before that part of the patrol route took us over a sweeping arc of chalk rubble, none of which was safe footing. Recent rains had dislodged rocks and gravel, making footing even less safe than usual.

Inevitably, one man got stuck. Corporal Dene put his weight on a rock, which rolled from beneath him, precipitating a small rockslide that made a nasty grating rumble for all of three seconds. The corporal's stout ammunition boot prevented serious injury, but his right foot was stuck firmly under three large boulders, too large for us to shift.

Our language for half a minute would have impressed jaded dockers. Finally I took charge, telling the two other men to double back to the base, get torches and crowbars and half a dozen of the standby team.

'Don't leave me, sir!' pleaded Dene, pathetically.

'Oh grow up you girl,' I snapped back. 'I'm staying with you. We won't be here long.'

A pious hope. It would take an hour to get the crowbars and return, especially since the sun was nearly down and the men returning would be moving in the dark, over unsafe terrain.

The feeling of being under observation came back ten-fold once the shades of night fell, and they fell quickly. Dene snivelled a bit, complaining about his foot, so I fed him a chocolate bar. If he felt glad of the company, so too did I, listening to the waves slap and rush in the still night air. My SLR never left my side, and Dene kept his within reach. A chilly breeze coming off the sea kept our hair on end. Either that or we were scared and wouldn't admit it.

Thirty minutes later the gentle rhythm of the waves changed slightly, out towards our front, an interruption only noticeable because I'd been listening so long.

'D'you think we're the first to be on here after dark, sir,' asked Dene.

'"Out", not "on", Dene. No I don't, actually. I reckon the garrison will have run patrols down here when they took over from the MoD police, until they found it was too dangerous.'

That was a complete guess.

'Can you hear that?' I asked. 'The sea must be getting up.'

Dene stared past me, out at the barbed wire, eyes wide. He didn't speak, so I slowly turned round, expecting to see some ghastly monster standing behind me, the hair on my neck bristling with fright.

Well, there was no ghastly monster standing behind me. No, this one stood in the barbed wire rolls, having stood up out of the water. Waves broke around it, creating the subtle difference in sound I'd noticed. It carefully strode over the wire, snagging on the barbs yet not bothering about them overmuch. At first it was only visible as a darker shadow against the sea, lurching closer in a clumsy fashion. What Dene and I could see of the shadow didn't endear it to us; it looked like a human version of the Westland Wessex. When the shambling figure got closer I liked it still less. Close-up you couldn't pretend it was a diver in silly costume trying to get to dry land. No. Close up it looked like what it was; a monster.

To create an approximation, imagine a human swollen and distorted by disease, their flesh drained of colour into a grey pallor, great abscesses marching across their body, fingernails lengthened into talons. Swathe the whole in rotting clothes, reeking of salt and chlorine, and you have what wandered up to Dene and I that spring evening.

Dene brought his SLR up smartish and loosed off a shot. The sound made me jump as high as the monster facing us.

'CEASE FIRE!' I yelled, half-turning to face the prone corporal. My mind went speeding on whilst I watched the creature.

Point one: the thing had it's hands raised. Non-hostile gesture.

Point two: whatever this creature was, it didn't feature in the Bestiary

Point three: no Red Card rules applied.

Point four: it was coming at us from a direction where we could see it, instead of sneaking up on us from behind.

I leant closer to Corporal Dene.

'I'm going to see what it wants. Don't shoot unless I order it, okay!'

Swaggering up to the beginning of the barbed wire, SLR cocked off one hip, looking Mr Monster squarely in the eye, I wondered just what to do. That shot of Dene's hit the beast square in the chest, without effect. Either it had incredibly good armour or bullets didn't worry it. Okay, if bullets wouldn't do the trick, perhaps diplomacy would.

My monster figured that out before me. Bowing low, an effect spoilt only slightly by the rusty barbed wire all around us, the creature extended both hands towards me.

Empty. Empty hands. A peace gesture?

Slinging my rife, I reproduced the gesture. Mr Monster took that as a positive step, standing back and nodding his huge, mis-shapen head in satisfaction. Next he pulled a small, round object from a pocket in his robes, throwing it to me.

Metal, round, black and weighty. The base plug from a hand-grenade. Okay, since the amphibious thing opposite didn't seem able to speak, perhaps sign language would do.

'Part of a hand-grenade,' I said, loudly and clearly, tugging at the one looped onto my uniform. The monster waved its hands in a clearly negative gesture, turned back and pointed at the sea and made the gesture again.

'What is it after?' I asked Dene. Hearing no reply I darted a quick glance in his direction; passed-out. Later he claimed the pain in his foot rendered him unconscious, but the other NCO's teased him about fainting with fright.

Once more the clumsy creature pantomimed it's gesture, pointing at the live grenade dangling on my chest and shaking its head, turning and waving at the waves.

Finally, I got, I got it.

'You want us to stop throwing grenades in the sea!'

Mister Monster bobbed his head in agreement. Fair do, I suppose. If you lived in the ocean you didn't want an endless rain of bombs coming down on your head.

'Very well. As Officer Commanding, I will forbid any more grenades to be used in the sea. Which is where you live?'

Another bobbing nod, after which the creature started to move back over the wire. In slightly deeper water, it stooped and picked up a bulky, regularly-shaped object, then brought it back and placed it at my feet. Giving a bow of farewell, the great shambling thing retreated into the waters of the cove.

'Sorry about shooting you,' I apologised, feeling that an apology was merited. The creature gave me a wave and carried on.

Arriving slightly too late, half a dozen men came down the cliff path with torches, crowbars, rope, splints and a collapsible stretcher. They found me staring at the sea, shaking my head in bewilderment, clutching a large piece of Russian electronic equipment.

Sergeant Whittaker got the rocks shifted from Corporal Dene in five minutes flat, we hoisted him onto the stretcher and all of us were off over the beach at high speed.

'What did you see?' muttered the sergeant, hanging back at the rear of the party with me.

'A great fishy man-monster that shrugs off bullets. Polite feller, though.'

In accordance with my orders, the patented Munroe Giant Fish Scoop suffered dismantling next morning, and the spare grenades were impounded and boxed up again.

Of course the whole garrison were agog and a-gabbling next day; something interesting had happened at Maiden's Point! Nobody quite knew what, except that it involved the OC, who wasn't giving anything away, certainly not that gadget "washed up on the beach".

When the next resupply helicopter came in, with my group of four due to fly out on it, the cargo included bags of seed potatoes, fertilizer bags, spades, shovels, forks, compost, tomato seedlings, runner beans, sweet corn and onions.

'That'll keep your men busy and out of mischief!' I told the incoming officer when he jumped out of the Wessex. The idea was to plant the crops and harvest them, creating an allotment on the site, vary the men's diet. Walmsley's substitute for fishing with grenades.

We soared high over the beach on the return leg, seeing the sea, not seeing anyone emerging from it. Picture postcard perfect, at least from on high. You could just see the big flat rock on the foreshore, where the beach patrols found fresh fish laid out every morning, covered with weed to prevent them drying out, ever since my meeting with the big sea-monster. Tit for tat, I suppose.

The Brig wanted to see me the instant I put feet on solid ground at Aylesbury. I could tell this because his batman came out to tell me so.

'Naughty boy,' whispered Nick. The batman took my kit, apart from one item, and I doubled off to the Brig's office.

'Come in!' he snapped when the adjutant knocked, and I was ushered in.

The Brig was there – salute, Walmsley – and the Doctor lounged in a chair against the wall. Two characters in navy uniform stood up to greet me.

'Lieutenant Walmsley, this is Captain Turner and Chief Petty Officer Hanrahan, sent down from the Admiralty,' explained the Brig. Another salute from me. The Captain gave me a bland smile. CPO Hanrahan's face wasn't made for smiling, being adorned with an immense black beard.

'They're here to have a look at that box of tricks you found,' explained Lethbridge-Stewart.

'Oh – certainly, sir. Here you go.' CPO Hanrahan took the device carefully, looking it over. 'We let it dry in the air. Didn't think the internals would enjoy being heated up.'

'Very good, sir,' pronounced the CPO. 'Surprisingly intact.'

'Washed ashore, eh' commented the Captain, casting a beady eye upon me. 'Unusual. These things are always chucked overboard in a weighted bag. Bit heavy for, hmm - washing ashore.'

I shrugged.

'It came ashore literally at my feet.'

Not a word of a lie.

'Looks like a Mod Seventeen, sir,' gloated Hanrahan. 'Even the Yanks haven't got beyond the Mod Fourteen.'

'Incidentally, Captain Turner,' I began, going on the attack. 'What was that peculiar skiing boat that intercepted the trawler? It went like stink.'

'A hydrofoil, Lieutenant,' interrupted the Doctor. 'Built to ski, as you put it, upon the waves.'

The Captain directed a black look at the lounging Doctor.

'Yes. A hydrofoil. Undergoing sea trials at Hartlepool, luckily for us.'

Another sally from me.

'We're a bit isolated at the Point, you know, so I may have missed the Russians protesting at one of their fishing vessels being sunk. It didn't get a mention on the radio.'

The Captain didn't reply, merely grinning bleakly.

'They wouldn't dare,' muttered Hanrahan, cradling the complicated Mod Seventeen carefully. 'Not after – hum.'

'Time for us to be going, I think. Brigadier,' said the Captain, saluting and leaving. Hanrhan delayed a second.

'You wouldn't believe how glad we are about this,' he whispered in passing, closing the door behind him as he indicated the device.

'And now, Lieutenant, perhaps you'd care to tell me the whole story!' barked the Brigadier, irked at the concealment of facts, perhaps. The Doctor pursed his lips, placed his forefingers together and regarded me with amusement.

I explained, leaving Nick Munroe's responsibility out of things. As OC it fell to me to square up to things.

Predictably, the Doctor only got excited when hearing about the amphibious horror sloshing ashore at dead of night.

'How interesting! Really, this is proof of a sustained eddy in the time vortex, given what you witnessed.'

'Oh. What did I witness, Doctor?'

'A haemovore. Definitely the product of asynchronous interchange. No wonder the Navy keeps clear. Most interesting, most interesting,' and he lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

'So you chose not to shoot it?' asked the Brig. I gave my reasons.

'Plus, sir, talking didn't risk anything. I suppose I could have tried a rugby tackle if it got nasty.'

'Tut tut!' interrupted the Doctor. 'You know, Lieutenant, I was beginning to think rather highly of you. Not shooting first is hardly typical of the military mind, you see. However, if you had tried physical violence, I'm afraid the haemovore would doubtless have killed you. They are tremendously strong.'

I gave voice to further suspicions.

'The Navy know a lot more about this than they let on. That wire on the beach isn't to keep those things off the land, it's to keep people out of the sea. The hydrofoil took care never to enter the Marine Exclusion Zone, whilst the Russians were lifted off their trawler by helicopter, not by boat. Nobody sailed into the zone except the Russians, who got sunk for their pains. It all looks like an arrangement to me –'

'"Leave us alone and we'll leave you alone",' commented the Doctor. 'A principle known as laissez-faire, and worth practicing, eh, Brigadier?'

Lethbridge-Stewart frowned.

'UNIT is founded on not leaving things alone, as you very well know, Doctor! Lieutenant, I can't comment on what you said, for the simple fact that I don't know what goes on under the water at Maiden's Point, thatnks to the Senior Service's practice of keeping its cards very close to its chest. The facts do seem to suggest what you point out is true. An accomodation exists between this kind of creature and humans.'

'An armistice,' suggested the Doctor. He seemed to enjoy baiting the Brigadier. 'Look, Lethbridge-Stewart, you called me in to verify this officer's story. Well, I've done so. He is telling the truth. Now, can we both leave?'

We were chased on our way by a growl.

'Someone got out of bed on the wrong side,' I muttered.

'My dear chap, it's nothing personal,' explained the Doctor. 'Geneva just sent in details of his budget for next year.'

'Ah. Cutbacks, then.'

The Doctor shrugged.

'One supposes. Money is something I have absolutely no use for, myself.'

I stared at him, hard.

'You know, Doctor, I can believe that without hesitation. Well, I am now going to make out endless reports about Maiden's Point, on a manual typewriter because UNIT can't afford enough electric ones or secretaries for the manual ones. Then I shall adjourn to the canteen. What's on the menu?'

'Cod and chips,' replied the Doctor, deadpan.